_If victory had a taste,_
It would be bold, a flavor not misplaced.
A sip of champagne, crisp and sweet,
A hint of salt from sweatâs defeat.
It lingers like honey, slow and warm,
Born of battles weathered through storm.
A bite of citrus, sharp and bright,
Awakening senses in the pale moonlight.
Itâs the crack of bread at a feast of kings,
The nectar that triumph endlessly brings.
But woven withi...